


like God in France

by lichtkleid



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M, Please read notes before reading, Prostitution, Tasteless, utterly tasteless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 15:20:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtkleid/pseuds/lichtkleid
Summary: "and when he left her skin, the spring was bleeding in paris"





	like God in France

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of complete fiction.  
> Frühling in Paris is a song that means a lot to me. It's the song that more or less drove me to learn German and to love Rammstein. It also inspired me to write my first story about Rammstein; they were my inspiration to get back to writing after a very long break, but this inspiration is now fading. I still love the band as much as the first day, but this is probably one of my last fics. I hope that, if you have read them, you enjoyed my previous writings :)  
> "To live like God in France" ("Wie Gott in Frankreich leben") means to live in luxury.

The nights kept rolling in and Montmartre felt more secret every day. In the city that once was a boiling crucible for young minds, beauty seemed to have retreated elsewhere and she did not know where to search for it. Where was the exaltation of her youth? And where was the anger of her beliefs, in the early dawn of her life? It seemed it had all been tarnished by the heaviness of life. Had those few years spent in Switzerland made her foreign to her own country? Did she not remember what it was like to live in Paris… and to be a citizen of Paris…?

The days went by and life was so strange now. All these feldgrau uniforms darkening the horizon. And all these voices in the radio, all lying, all false, talking of future hopes and blessed days that would never come, while the anchormen crumpled ration stamps in their hands.

She drowned her future in alcohol. In Montmartre it tasted better than anywhere else, it tasted of second chances and of futures lives. But who gives the whore a second chance when she reaches forty? And where stand the ghost children of her unfertile loins when she strolls through the bleeding city?

 

She went at night for drinks in that narrow café in Montmartre where ration stamps did not truly matter, until one day came in a man in a feldgrau uniform and a scar on his cheek that made a hollow mark under his cheekbone.  
She rose and walked towards him. He was hunched over the counter, smoking, and only paying attention to the stains on the wall, while the barman was pouring him some white alcohol. She gave him a soft smile that gained his attention. His face softened. He had pale eyes in a harsh face. 

She introduced herself in a shaky German that made his eyes fill with amusement, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he bent over and pressed a kiss to her hand, in the custom of his land.  
He said his name with a curt smile in a way that made her realize that he was lying, but it was all fine. She was lying too, after all. His voice was soft and raspy and it made him look older than he truly was. And just like her, the German soldier who wouldn't tell her his name was drunk on Paris’s alluring springtime, drunk on his youth, and drunk on his need.

With a certainty she hadn’t felt in years, she took his hand and they went back together to her hotel.  
He was young, he was innocent and he knew nothing. And this ignorance seduced her more that any promise.

When he undressed himself, with the characteristic lack of modesty of the Germans, she felt a searing ache for his youth; and suddenly it did not matter that his name was foreign and that his tongue could not pronounce her words. He was young and strong and while at the dawn of his life, he was still a stranger to himself. He looked at the woman on the bed with fire in his eyes, and within her he saw every woman in the world.

He was so young, she thought, and she smiled a smile full of promises. War had probably robbed him of the innocence of adolescence, but in many aspects he still lacked knowledge. He looked at her as she stood above him and kissed her lips. They tasted of the wine they had drunk. A perfume of crushed flowers gushed in through the open window, covering the smell of blood and of fear – beauty over death, the ultimate battle.  
He did not care for the war, and if blood had once soiled his hands, the thought was long lost. Paris was so beautiful. That woman holding him was so beautiful. He was losing his mind and it felt delicious. She was making a man out of him, and she felt young too as he ravaged her. With this boy who could barely be called a man, she was a woman again.

And together, for once, they fought under the same assaults.

His hand were running all over her body and she moaned softly, eyes shut, dreaming of lost days in bleeding Paris, with another man, one who could understand her, rolling in the white sheets of another hotel. And when she opened her eyes, it was his scarred face her eyes met; his harsh features softened by lust and the strand of hair falling on his forehead. A wave of tenderness for this foreign man who had given her his innocence washed over her. And, bowed down by rough and inexperienced hands, she let him do as he willed, in a brutal and paradoxically humble way.  
War, they would learn, was only a matter of words. Who won, and who lost, in that stupid game, was merely a matter of words, for whoever had chosen to enter this stupid, sick game had long lost. 

He left in the morning without a word, but with a light in his eye that was new, while she remained laying on the bed. Her legs felt weak, and she was languid and already nostalgic. Now that he had paid, they could be enemies again, but she knew now that Germany would always mean this man to her. He was going to go back to the army now, and maybe he’ll put Paris through fire and sword again, and her along with it. It was fine. It was the fate of mankind.  
His life had barely begun and hers felt like it was ending.  
She rose and walked to the windows, watching him leave the hotel and walk away without a last look. The dawn was red and luminous. It had the color of that blood that had been spilled and would be spilled again and again, in this war that seemed to know no end.

Maybe one day, they would know peace.


End file.
